And the faithful shall not question, nor shall they waver, for as the King stands, so does the covenant.
As the King rules, so does the Veil hold.
Vasha.
Chapter 15
Rowenna’s letter arrived at the tail end of summer, when the sun clung to the horizon like a child refusing sleep. Ilys tore into it like a woman starved, for words, for affection, for the kind of company that didn’t measure her by obedience. Gods, how she missed her.
My dearest Ilys,
The sky here is orange more often than not, and the pears bruise if you so much as think at them harshly. Which means, I suppose, it’s nearly time for me to split open like a ripe fig and introduce the world to a very small, very loud person.
Would you like to see a child exit my body?
Directions (for your amusement and mild frustration): take the north road past the weeping alder. Follow the hill until the path becomes indecent. My cottage is tucked behind the blackberry thorns. Knock twice, then once, then shout something rude and possibly blasphemous.
There’s a bed here. And tea. And me, terrified, yes, but oddly calm when I imagine your boots on my doorstep. Come if you will. I won’t pretend it will make things easier, but it would make them lovelier.
Fat and desperate,
Rowenna
Ilys read it twice, then a third time, slower. Her hands trembled as she folded it again, her thumb pressed to the seam like a seal.
Could she leave?
Veil Law did not dictate where she went as long as she fulfilled her duty; though it did forbid the attachment that drew her away. What was the alternative? Staying, grieving, rotting until Death arrived for the march? She had lost so much. With her life given to the Bargain, could she not steal away for just a moment? Claim a shred of life as her own?
Baron had begged for her blade. Grim had left her in the hands of a fickle god. Death… Death held her like a vise for his amusement.
But Rowenna? Rowenna asked for only her presence. Even now, belly heavy with a new life and fear curled under her ribs, Rowenna had not summoned the Veilwalker or the executioner. She had called for Ilys. Simply Ilys.
Later, she could not sleep.
The Veilwalker lay curled beneath her thin covers, eyes open to the dark, tracing and retracing each step she would take from the Sanctum to the road, thoughts darting like minnows. Every sound in the stillness, creaking floorboards, the low sigh of wind through the shutters, seemed louder than it should be. Still, she waited. When she moved, she dropped low and fluid, like water slipping between cracks. She dressed in shadow, donning her cloak and lifting the satchel she had packed hours before. Atthe stables, the scent of hay and horse sweat greeted her. Her mare, Spire, lifted her head as Ilys approached, nostrils flaring, hooves shifting with impatience. Ilys reached out and brushed the forelock from Spire’s eyes, fingers gentle, reverent.
“I will spoil you,” she whispered, “if you do right by me now.”
Spire snorted in cheeky approval.
Ilys led her out past the paddock, beyond the sleeping watchhouse, and into the pale wash of pre-dawn light. Ahead, Annon stretched wide and quiet.
She mounted in one smooth motion, the leather creaking beneath her. Then, with a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, Ilys pressed her heels to Spire’s sides and began the ride.
